The artist painted this in the nude.

 

Maybe without a brush

summoned it in her sleep.

Awoke to its miracle,

pawing at the fog of her morning eyes like Dorian Gray.  

 

Naw, the artist was just some dude.

Living room view of New Jersey gas silos,

like a hangnail

throbbing the green thumb of his Woodstock aesthetic.

So he covers the scene,

but should’ve known

tonight’s dinner date is old school eastern bloc,

Poland or Lithuania, who might’ve been fond of dimpled silver cannons

burning at the top, shoved into the earth

like Michael Jackson’s dirty shoes.

 

If anything, don’t be obvious.

The painting is nothing if not a secret,

so of course a murder comes to mind if you’re American

before we have enough clues.

 

It is not. That’s all bullshit and poppycock.

A friend of a friend has been there and back again,

certain the artist is Congolese—

 

once commissioned to paint a single self-portrait,

only it was found to be

too abstract,

 

so she swapped it for a camera with some dumb Belgian.